The radio was about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Eagerly Gilligan
extended the antenna and trailed the ground wire over the side into the
water. Then he tried the radio. Only a hiss and crackle of static came out
of the speaker.
Grimacing, Gilligan carefully clipped the radio to the breast pocket of
his flight suit. Next he pulled out the transponder and examined it.
The transponder was bigger than the survival radio, but it did more. When
it received a signal indicating an aircraft was in the area it transmitted
a powerful homing signal. Just now it was silent as the grave.
Gilligan punched the self-test button on the receiver and watched the LED
indicator light up. Then he studied the other indicator for a few minutes
and his expression got grimmer and grimmer.
Every military aircraft and almost all airliners and business aircraft
carry beacons which would trigger his transponder. Gilligan knew for a
fact that an AWACS and several other aircraft should have been within
range. If even one plane was above the horizon, the device should have
been screaming its little electronic heart out. Yet the self-test said it
was working.
Either the self-test was lying or there were no planes above the horizon.
Considering what the rest of this business had been like, Gilligan didn’t
think the transponder was broken.
He pulled out his compass. He didn’t expect it to work this far north and
he wasn’t disappointed.
There was one very non-standard item in Major Michael Francis Xavier
Gilligan’s survival kit. A 9mm Beretta automatic with three fourteen-round
magazines and a black nylon Bianchi shoulder holster to match. He
inspected the pistol, slammed one of the magazines home and jacked back
the slide. Then he struggled into the shoulder holster’s harness.
Then he felt a lot better.
* * *
Back at the base the people were feeling worse as the minutes ticked by.
The general wasn’t happy, Ozzie Sharp wasn’t happy, the squadron commander
wasn’t happy and unhappiest of all was the young captain who ran the
base’s rescue operation.
“We got on his last known position quickly and flew an expanding spiral
search,” the captain explained. “Then we did it again with a different
aircraft and crew. We have had aircraft on top almost constantly. There is
no voice communication and no transponder signal.”
“What about the Russians?”
“They say they haven’t seen any sign of him.”
“And you believe them?”
“It’s credible,” Ozzie Sharp said. “The Russians returned to their base
with all their missiles still on their wings.” No one bothered to ask how
he knew.
The general grunted. Then his head snapped up and he transfixed the young
captain with a steely-eyed stare.
“Why the bloody hell can’t you even find the area where he went down?”
“Sir, this is a very unusual situation. He had sent his wingman back, so
we don’t have as much information as we normally do.” The captain thought
about explaining how well they were doing to have gotten this far in the
few hours since the missing pilot’s wingman had broken out of the dead
zone. Then he caught the general’s eye again and decided not to.
“Have your crews found anything unusual?” Sharp asked. “Any unusual
readings or problems with your instruments?”
“None, sir. As far as we can tell, there’s nothing in that fog but more
fog.”
The expression on Sharp’s face made the general seem mild by comparison.
“We’re going over the area again,” the captain offered quickly. “But so
far there’s no sign of Major Gilligan or his plane.”
“Nothing on the transponder?” the general asked.
“Nossir,” the officer said.
“Captain, I thought this sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“It isn’t, sir.”
It’s as if he dropped off the face of the earth, the captain thought. But
it was bad form to say something like that.
Major Gilligan drifted through the fog and tried to figure out what the
hell had happened to him. He didn’t have the faintest idea where he was,
but increasingly he doubted it was anywhere near Alaska. There was still
fog all around him, but when the sun broke through it was bright, warm and